


Neverland

by fourailes



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gay Rights, Gen, M/M, Multi, New York City, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, Politics, Sharing a Room, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover, Undercover as Married, Unresolved Sexual Tension, enjolras is the french ambassador living in nyc, marius is the new guy, very very loosely inspired by graceland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourailes/pseuds/fourailes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Marius Pontmercy is assigned to the US Government's undercover safehouse in New York, the last thing he expects is a marriage proposal in his first week on the job.</p><p>And while cynical reporter Grantaire is used to covering the more sensational political news, he's hardly going to pass up the opportunity for an exclusive interview with the insanely attractive new French ambassador to the US--even if he might be under investigation for extortion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot (Courfeyrac)

**Author's Note:**

> as i said, this is very very loosely inspired by (but not really based on) the tv show Graceland. agents from FBI, DEA, and Customs live in a house together (but for our purposes it's in NYC) and they...participate in undercover shenanigans. fuller introductions will come in chapter two :)  
> (also it's rotating POV so that every storyline gets some time in the spotlight, and i organized it a bit like a television show to make things flow better--in my head really.)  
> a thousand thanks to guinevere_grey for her half-assed beta'ing and also for the title. :) (yes it's a pun due to Michael Jackson and the inspiration--it's the name of their house). this is the longest note you will ever see from me, wow.

“Pontmercy? Marius Pontmercy?” 

Courfeyrac’s contact in D.C. had mentioned the new guy had freckles, but he was wholly unprepared for the strawberry-blond kid who spun toward him. His face was covered in freckles; they even dotted his neck all the way down to where his shirt was buttoned (one button short of way too high). Courfeyrac would never admit it, but he’d always kind of had a thing for freckles. This feeling did not extend, however, to preppy Quantico grads who didn’t think twice about answering to their given name in a public place when they were supposed to be starting an undercover assignment.

They made eye contact, and Courfeyrac noticed Pontmercy’s puzzled expression. Okay, so Courf knew he didn’t exactly meet traditional G-man standards. His low v-neck, too-tight skinny jeans, and ironic $90 fedora were a stark contrast to this guy’s blue button-down/khakis combo. But Courfeyrac also knew that, in this line of work, not fitting the traditional image of an FBI agent was one of the biggest advantages he could have.

“Agent Pontmercy, I presume?” he joked, stepping close so he could lower his voice. “Name’s Courfeyrac, but you can call me Courf.” Marius blinked at him, but Courfeyrac took it in stride, grabbing one of his bags and leading the way out of the crowded terminal. “So your flight was early then. _That’s_ unusual. Short trip, though.”

Nodding, Marius caught up at the door. “Do flights usually get in late here or...?”

“I mean, it’s an airport.” Courfeyrac gestured across the parking lot. “Didn’t feel like paying to park, so it’s a bit of a walk. Let’s put that hardcore physical training to good use, yeah?”

Pontmercy raised an eyebrow but followed without complaint as Courfeyrac took off at a jog.

Courfeyrac drove like a crazy person (or, as he explained to Marius, someone who didn’t want to get steamrolled by a cab driver), and they made it to the safehouse in under an hour. Courf escorted Marius inside--and even helped him get his bags upstairs--before pointing to an empty room and waving goodbye. 

Thursday was supposed to be his day off, and he had standing plans with “the guys” (which really just included whoever was available and willing to let Courfeyrac drag them to the newest clubs).

He felt a little bit bad for abandoning Pontmercy, so he turned at the top of the stairs to shout back. “Hey, I’m going out--wanna come?”

“Um, I think I actually...it’s kind of late, isn’t it? I have to unpack.” Marius looked wildly uncomfortable at the idea, so Courfeyrac dropped it.

“Cool. Bathroom’s down the hall, and there’s beer in the fridge.” Courfeyrac pointed as he spoke, and then winked before heading down the stairs. “Don’t get too crazy.”

No one else was home, and Courfeyrac still felt kind of bad for ditching the new guy, but he was almost fully recovered by the time he grabbed his jacket off the couch and was jogging out the door to hail a cab.

He, Feuilly, and Grantaire were basically the only regulars at the dive near Grantaire’s flat, as it was where they always started their evenings (and frequently ended their mornings). It was only about a fifteen minute cab ride, but Grantaire had beaten him there.

Grantaire was Courfeyrac’s one exception to his personal rule. Grantaire was a journalist (if you could really call it that), who usually covered political scandals and also did favors for his friends at Neverland now and then. No one could remember exactly when Grantaire had become a permanent fixture in their tight-knit little club (and he still wasn’t allowed upstairs), but Courfeyrac thought it was nice to have one friend who didn’t want to always talk shop.

“‘Sup, bro? Who’s coming out tonight?”

Grantaire gave him a dirty look. “Next time you call me ‘bro’, I’m starting a bar fight. Not today, though, since Bahorel’s working. Just you, me, and Feuilly. Which means we’re staying right here.” He raised his glass to the bartender, who just shook her head and filled a pint for Courfeyrac.

“Is the cute one coming tonight?” she asked, winking at Grantaire.

Affronted, Courfeyrac took the beer and sat with his back to her, but he still waved enthusiastically as Feuilly entered the bar a moment later.

Nodding his head in acknowledgement, Feuilly took the empty seat on the other side of Grantaire and gratefully accepted his beer. Another housemate, Feuilly worked for the DEA along with Jehan and Eponine, who were out on a job tonight. Although Feuilly would bristle whenever anyone called him cute to his face, Eponine, Grantaire, and Bahorel seemed to particularly enjoy doing so (and it wasn’t untrue).

“That asshole called me today while I was at lunch with the number two guy in this--”

“Which asshole?” Grantaire interrupted. “Courf and I are both here.”

Feuilly glared at him. “Which asshole do you think?”

“Did you answer it?” Courfeyrac demanded.

“Of course not! So he called three more times and then texted to say _Oh shit you must be working. Sorry. Talk later._ ” He took a gulp. “Needless to say, we did _not_ talk later.”

Grantaire shrugged and pulled out his phone. “In _much better_ news, have you guys seen the new French ambassador? He’s fucking hot. And single. And almost 100% gay.”

“So clearly you’ll have to seduce him,” Courfeyrac said, while Feuilly, at the exact same moment, shot Grantaire a confused stare and asked, “How is a person ‘almost 100% gay’?”

Grantaire announced, “Pics!” and Courfeyrac leaned across his lap to explain things to Feuilly. “Well, no one is actually quite sure because he’s _incredibly_ private about his personal life, but the dude almost single-handedly passed that gay marriage legislation in France, and he’s speaking at the whats-it event next week, so R,” he leaned back to make eye-contact, “you should _definitely_ go for it.”

By two, Feuilly had already pointed out at least four times that it was getting late and they should head home. Courfeyrac finally relented, so they awkwardly bro-hugged Grantaire and flagged down a taxi.

Courfeyrac had the cab drop them off two blocks away, out of careful habit, and they stumbled home just in time to meet Eponine and Jehan, who looked for all the world like a couple of dangerous meth-heads. Courf dragged them all into a group hug before they continued inside, where Bahorel and Bossuet had fallen asleep to _Whose Line_ reruns, and Marius was nowhere to be seen.

Courf shook Bossuet awake and whispered _“Bahorel”_ from a safe distance, gesturing for Eponine and Jehan to stay downstairs.

“Guys. Guys. Remember how there was a new guy coming? He’s here! Pondmerry or whatever. I put him in the empty room and he’s probably asleep so be quiet or you’ll wake him, and for god’s sake everyone go to bed or ‘Ferre will find out and stare us all down until we apologize!”

Eponine laughed and let Courfeyrac drag her up the stairs; Bossuet and Jehan were close behind.

But Bahorel grabbed Feuilly by the arm. “Look, man, I just wanted t--”

Feuilly jerked away. “I’m too tired for this shit.” He stormed up the stairs, leaving Bahorel to sprawl on the couch and wonder what the hell he’d done wrong this time.


	2. Ready, Aim, Marry Me (Eponine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine shows Marius around; Courfeyrac has kind of a weird invitation for the new guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took way too long to write, but here it is! from Eponine's POV, as that's going to be rotating through. kisses to g, as always.

Having dragged herself down the stairs in nothing but socks and a t-shirt she’d stolen from Feuilly, Eponine yawned and kicked Bahorel awake. He growled at her and threw a pillow halfway across the room, but she only smirked and started a pot of coffee. With a sleepy glare, Bahorel stumbled upstairs to shower, leaving Eponine alone downstairs. She hopped up on the counter with a bowl of cereal, waiting for the coffee and humming absently to herself.

The kitchen door creaked open behind her, and Eponine sprang up, ready for a fight.

It was not, however, your average early-morning intruder. The freckled (sweaty, shirtless... _No_. _Eyes front, Eponine_!) young man was clearly the house’s newest agent, judging by the way he jogged inside, earbuds still in, and then stopped short. He stared at Eponine, eyes going wide at her state of relative undress, and then he quickly pulled out his earbuds and stuck out his hand.

“You must be, uh, Eponine?” Before she could recover, he snatched his hand back and wiped it on his shorts. “Sorry. I’m pretty gross.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” _Shit_. The words had escaped before she could rethink them.

He chuckled awkwardly and they shook hands. “I’m Marius. Marius Pontmercy. I’m the new guy.”

She awkwardly joined his laughter. “I figured.”

He smiled again, showing ridiculously white teeth (and fucking _dimples_ ), before grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with cold tap water. Eponine did _not_ stare as Marius turned to lean back against the counter, chugging water as his sweaty chest rose and fell.

At least, she wasn’t staring when she heard someone trip on the last step and spun around to see Courfeyrac limping into the kitchen, eyes fixed on Marius.

“I, uh, I tripped,” he explained needlessly, blinking at Marius and swallowing hard. Eponine rolled her eyes, shoving down the part of her that screamed _hypocrite!_

Marius finished his glass and filled another, taking it a bit slower this time. He smiled blindingly at Courfeyrac, apparently oblivious to the effect he was having on the kitchen’s other two occupants.

Courf recovered enough to glance hopefully at Eponine. “Make enough coffee for two?” She rolled her eyes again and handed him a mug, which he took without looking away from Marius. “So, you, um...morning.”

Marius shot him a puzzled look. "Morning to you, too, Courf."

“Mornin’,” Courfeyrac mumbled into his empty coffee mug.

Eponine patted his shoulder. “He’s always a little incoherent in the mornings, poor thing.”

She took the mug from him and poured them both generous servings of coffee before waving the empty pot wickedly at Feuilly as he trooped down the stairs.

“Damn, Pontmercy, put on a shirt next time.”

Marius blushed and looked down. Eponine took the chance to glare at Feuilly and shake her head warningly. Somewhat recovered, Courfeyrac chuckled behind his mug and earned an elbow from Eponine.

“Like you want that?” she hissed, low enough that Marius couldn’t hear. Courfeyrac shrugged and tried not to think about waking up to shirtless Marius every morning. He is thankfully distracted by Eponine announcing more coffee and Bossuet bouncing down the stairs with a cheery “g’morning!”

Feuilly dove for the coffee pot as Bossuet leaned close to half-whisper in Courfeyrac’s ear. “He even _made his bed_!” Courfeyrac sputtered into his coffee and stared at Marius, who blushed harder and dropped his glass into the sink.

“I’m gonna...um, shower.” 

Feuilly winked at his housemates as Marius took the stairs two at a time, but all three of them were a little distracted--watching Marius take the stairs two at a time. He rolled his eyes and offered Bossuet a cup of coffee, before opening the fridge for milk.

“Wait a sec...” He glared at Courfeyrac. “I had a beer in here yesterday. Did you drink it?”

Courfeyrac shrugged and glanced inside. “There’s like ten beers in here, dude.”

“And there were eleven when I left yesterday.” Feuilly scowled at him. “You see any Boulevard? Because I sure don’t.”

“I wasn’t even here last night, dumbass, I was with _you_!” Courfeyrac suddenly flinched.

“What?”

Courfeyrac shrugged again, but this time he looked away guiltily. “I, um, I might have told Marius to help himself last night.”

Feuilly sighed. “Well he didn’t know any better. But that means _you_ owe me a six-pack.”

“Are you kidding? That shit’s like impossible to find--”

Clapping him on the back, Feuilly mirrored his earlier shrug. “Should’ve thought of that. R might know.”

Eponine, having resumed her perch on the counter, kicked her foot out to catch Courfeyrac on his way upstairs. “Get more Jack when you go, too, will ya? Grantaire drank all of mine.”

“What was he doing with your--never mind.” Courfeyrac stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Oh, and Ep? Would you mind showing Pontmercy around the house today? I gotta run.”

She smirked. “Gladly.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for Eponine to point out the highlights of the house, and afterward, she insisted on taking Marius out to lunch. He loved the deli she introduced him to, and was still talking about his sandwich when they got back.

Jehan was sitting on a barstool, covered in dirt and munching on a quesadilla, and Marius did a double-take.

“ _Jehan_?! Jean Prouvaire?”

“Marius! It is you! I knew it couldn’t be a coincidence...” Jehan hopped down and threw his arms around Marius while Eponine looked on in confusion.

When they finally broke apart, Jehan offered Eponine an apologetic smile. “We went to high school together in Maryland! This is great.” He turns back to Marius. “How’s the family? And...Cosette?”

Marius bit his lip. “We, um, she’s good. We decided to take a break though, when I got assigned up here. You know, just things.”

Kindly, Jehan doesn’t push him. But he also doesn’t know what else to say.

Eponine steps in, handing Marius a glass of orange juice. “Is there a reason the job required dirt all over your face, Jehan?”

He laughed. “That’s actually more of a side-effect. Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you usually have to look like a hobo for work?” Marius asked, draining his glass.

Eponine chuckled. “As DEA, we do occasionally have to go undercover as--”

“You drink Feuilly’s beer?”

They all spun around to see Bahorel coming in the front door, glaring at Marius.

“I, um, I had some--what?”

“You didn’t think to ask first?” Bahorel growled.

Marius was saved answering when Feuilly slammed the front door. “It’s none of your fucking business! It’s not his fault Courf didn’t tell him, so just leave the kid alone and mind your own damn business!”

Eponine grabbed Marius by the arm, and they escaped out the kitchen door with Jehan before Feuilly and Bahorel came to blows.

“Don’t worry about them,” Eponine assured him. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Who, um, who exactly was that?”

Jehan chuckled. “That, my friend, was Bahorel. He’s FBI, with you and Courf. He can be...enthusiastic. But his bark is worse than his bite.” Eponine elbowed him. “Well...usually. He probably wouldn’t hit the new guy.”

Flinching, Marius stepped further away from the door and almost backed into Courfeyrac.

“What the--where did you come from?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Got ya, huh?”

“No,” Marius protested. “You didn’t _get_ me, I just--”

Courfeyrac threw an arm around his shoulders, laughing with Eponine and Jehan. “Sure, sure. Now listen, I, uh--” he glanced at the others as their laughter subsided, looking suddenly uncertain. “You’re not on assignment yet, yeah?”

“That’s right.” Marius frowned slightly, and then his eyes lit up. “You got something for me?”

Shrugging, Courfeyrac pulled him aside. “If you want it. I’d ask Bahorel but, um, yeah no one would buy us.”

“‘Buy us’? What do you need this to be?” Although clearly interested, Marius now seemed wary. If Bahorel wouldn’t work for the job, why on earth did Courfeyrac think he would?

“It’s--well...you don’t have to do it. I could maybe make it work without you, or get clearance f--”

“Spit it out already!” Eponine urged, from where she and Jehan were listening--very conspicuously--in the door frame.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and pulled a tiny cardboard box from his pocket. If Marius had been confused before, he was completely befuddled when Courfeyrac went down on one knee and opened the box.

“Special Agent Marius Pontmercy, will you marry me?”

Unsure how to respond (and knowing he wouldn’t be heard over Eponine’s hooting), Marius reached into the box.

“Really? A Ring Pop?” 

Courfeyrac offered his winningest smile. 

Marius studied the “ring”. “Are we twelve?”

“Come on, babe, just say yes,” Courfeyrac wheedled, standing and trying to hug him.

Marius awkwardly allowed the contact and slipped the Ring Pop onto his left pinky. “Conditional yes. Why exactly are we getting middle-school-married?”

“I’ve got a couple real rings upstairs somewhere. Relax.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Eponine approached them, mostly hiding her giggles behind her hand. “Is this about that ambassador?”

“Oh yeah, Feuilly said something about the conference he was speaking at!” Jehan looked far more excited than Marius clearly felt.

“Right. Conference. Okay, Pontmercy, here’s the deal. Ambassador Enjolras--from France--he’s new in town, and he’s the keynote speaker at this Pride rally conference thing downtown next week and, well, the FBI suspects him of extortion. And while obviously we can’t actually nail him, we think he’s probably working with some Americans to blackmail these senators and...well, Combeferre thinks--and I agree--we’ll have a much better chance getting dirt on him if we go undercover to this conference. I dunno quite all the details, but ‘Ferre will fill us in and we’ll get a room at the hotel and I’ve got an guy who can get us close, if you, uh, if you’re in, that is.”

Marius took a deep breath, trying to process the sudden influx of information. “Well,” he said slowly, “if we’re going undercover as married, you should probably start calling me by my first name.”

A grin spread across Courfeyrac’s face, and Eponine shook both their hands while Jehan cried “congratulations!” and ran inside to tell Bahorel and Feuilly.

“So you’ll do it then?”

Marius nodded and licked the Ring Pop. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”


	3. Meet the Press (Grantaire)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has two very different meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty dramatically switching POV here for a bit--but i promise it all comes together in the end (or like the next chapter probably)
> 
> (as always, i profusely apologize for the belated nature of this installment, and i both thank and blame ginger for literally everything)
> 
> oh also teensy warning for use of a reclaimed slur, if that's a sensitive issue for anyone <3

“So let me get this straight. You want me to request a special assignment to help you and your--did you say your boyfriend? Why haven’t I met this guy?--you want me to help you do what exactly?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes at the cell phone as Courfeyrac less-than-patiently explained his request.

“Like you wouldn’t have requested the assignment anyway. After the way you were going on about his face?”

“I have a...a thing, now,” Grantaire protested. “A _thing_ thing, not a conflict with the conference. Yeah, yeah, I’m covering it. I already emailed his guy yesterday to set up an interview, are you happy?”

He could practically _hear_ Courfeyrac beaming. “Ecstatic. And I can’t wait to introduce you to Marius. Although, um, he’s actually my fiance. So...but yeah we’ll get together this weekend!”

Before Grantaire could react to this news, the line was dead, and he was left holding his phone to his ear in shock. He knew Courf liked to move fast, but _marriage_? Grantaire was pretty sure Courfeyrac hadn’t even been dating the guy that long, not that it was any of his business.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and scrolled through his messages before selecting a conversation and tapping a quick _“you free tonight?”_

His phone buzzed almost instantly with a reply. 

Ep _: “i’m free most nights now :/ bar or your place?”_

R: _“ah quit feeling sorry for yourself. my place is cool unless you didn’t want that. plenty of booze.”_

Ep: _“like that bottle of jack you nabbed last time you were over?”_

R: _“not my fault you keep it in the kitchen in plain sight ;)”_

Ep: _“asshole. see you at 11ish?”_

R: _“that works”_

He locked his phone and tossed it on the couch in favor of his laptop. It pings as soon as he opens it, announcing a new email from the ambassador’s assistant. He skims it, several phrases jumping out. _“Yes, of course.” “He’d love to sit down with you...” “How’s lunch tomorrow?”_

Grantaire did not punch the air.

* * *

The knock at his door later that night came unexpectedly, and Grantaire glanced at the time on his laptop screen. _Oh_. It was almost 11 after all. Eponine didn’t wait for him to let her in, but waltzed through the door with Chinese food.

“Let me guess,” she remarked, gesturing to the laptop. “You completely lost track of time preparing for that interview and forgot to eat and forgot I was coming over.”

“I didn’t _forget_ you were coming over, I just--wait, Courf told you about the interview?”

“I deduced.”

Grantaire side-eyed her, but accepted the offering of Chinese and pointed to the liquor cabinet. While selecting a few bottles, Eponine somehow also managed to glare at him. “Put your goddamn laptop away!”

“How else am I supposed to _set the mood_?” Grantaire countered, already saving his notes and preparing to shut it down.

“I know you already have the porn queued up,” Eponine said dryly, patting the 1990s television set as she passed it on her way to the sofa. She plopped down next to Grantaire and put her feet up. “It’s my night off--let’s have some fun.”

Two hours later, Eponine’s lipstick was in places Grantaire usually liked to keep covered, and she was asleep on his legs while obscene sounds continued to emit from the crackly tv speaker. Taking another swig of whiskey, Grantaire stroked Eponine’s hair absentmindedly and considered reaching for his laptop. His mind was almost made up--he had an important interview to prepare for, after all--when Eponine stirred.

“Don’t you have a big fancy interview tomorrow?” she mumbled. “Go to sleep.”

He didn’t sleep, but Eponine didn’t need to know that. Coffee is a magical drug, truly.

* * *

Eponine showered and took off around 10, leaving Grantaire an hour to make himself presentable. Normally he didn’t give a fuck, but this French diplomat would probably expect someone who at least looked like a professional. This was his first real assignment in months--he could at least _look_ like he was taking it seriously. So a quick shave, a button-up with minimal wrinkles, and boots instead of chucks with dark wash jeans. It was the R-tux, Courfeyrac would have said. (The joke was on him, though, Grantaire actually did own a tux.)

His flat was only a fifteen minute walk from the ambassador’s hotel, so Grantaire gave himself enough time to hoof it and freshen up when he arrived. They were dining in the hotel lounge, which hadn’t been Grantaire’s idea, but worked out perfectly, since now he’d have a chance to do some poking around after the interview.

He had hoped to beat Enjolras there (Feuilly often berated him for his ironic love of power dynamics), but the unmistakable shock of blonde walking his way in the hotel lobby meant the upper hand probably wasn’t in the cards for Grantaire this afternoon. Especially not when this particular foreign diplomat looked more like a movie star and pretty much the furthest thing from a stuffy politician Grantaire could imagine.

“Monsieur Enjolras!” He put on his professional face and held out a cordial hand. “A pleasure.”

Enjolras took his hand firmly and steered him into the lounge. “The pleasure is all mine,Mr. Grantaire,” he replied in perfect English. 

_Shocking, that_ , Grantaire grumbled to himself. Enjolras led them straight to a corner table with two plush leather chairs and out-of-place romantic lighting that caused Grantaire to stifle a chuckle.

“Something amusing, Mr. Grantaire?”

“Please, just Grantaire. Or my friends call me R.” They sat, and Grantaire pulled out his notepad and recorder. “Mind if we jump right in?”

“Not at all.” Enjolras smiled and waved a server over.“Could we get water and something to snack on first? Thank you.” Turning back to Grantaire, he grew serious. “Shoot.”

Grantaire hit record and settled forward in his chair. “Well, first off, I gotta say I’m impressed by your language skills. I heard you speak four--and at least two of them fluently, I’d say. I can barely keep up with the one.”

Enjolras graced him with a light laugh. “What makes you think I speak my native tongue so skillfully? And I must disagree; I find your writing very skillful indeed, Grantaire.”

“My-- You’ve read my stuff?”

“Of course. You prepare for your interviews, do you not? I do my own research, as well. Although I will admit, you yourself are not quite what I was expecting.”

Grantaire snorted. “I clean up real good, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Enjolras protested.

“That’s totally what you meant. It’s fine. I’m not exactly known for being a clean-cut choir boy, no.” Grantaire took a deep breath. “Alright, brass tacks. You’re twenty-eight and you’re already known worldwide for politics. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Is there a question in there?”

Grantaire held up a hand. “I’m getting to it. So basically everything you’ve done this past year has been pretty heavily scrutinized, isn’t that right?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Including the lengths you’ll go to to get your way. Care to comment?”

“I’m not entirely sure to what you are referring, actually.”

“Oh, right, because there have been several instances. My bad. I’ll rephrase. Could you comment on the economic ramifications of heedless political actions on a country’s working class?”

Enjolras frowned. “I thought we were here to talk about the conference, and perhaps the gay marriage legislation recently passed in my home country.”

“Sure, sure,” Grantaire allowed, focusing on a spot just above his subject’s entirely-too-perfect-to-be-real hair. Had to be from a bottle. Extensions. A wig. “How about a few words on your stubborn insistence that your own sexuality be left out of conversation? I’d think you’d want to show a little pride--unless there’s something you’d rather your supporters not know?”

“Gay marriage is a very personal issue for me,” Enjolras snapped. “I’ve been fighting for rights of the queer community worldwide since before I was even in office, and my own personal life is irrelevant to that discussion.”

“Half a sec. Were you aware, Monsieur, that here in the States, ‘queer’ is considered a slur only acceptably used by those who have chosen to reclaim it?” Grantaire tapped his fingers on the table, expecting to be made to wait for a response.

Enjolras replied immediately. “Of course I was aware. But you’re right, it was a poor word choice for the context. Feel free to replace it with whatever you’d like.”

“I see.” Grantaire allowed himself a smug grin. “So you’re a member of the community reclaiming it, then?” He didn’t bother to wait for Enjolras to stammer an answer. “Moving on, then. There have been some rumors circulating that you may be involved in some under-the-table dealings over here on this side of the pond. Any truth to that?”

Enjolras sighed, but leaned forward to allow Grantaire’s recorder to catch his words. “None.”

 


End file.
